During our globe-trotting adventures, we've made friends from all corners of the world. It's like collecting stamps, but with people who like to take their clothes off at resorts. Over time, we kept hearing whispers about a place called Caliente Club and Resort nestled right here in Florida, just a few hours' drive away. Naturally, curiosity got the better of us, and one day, in a fit of spontaneity, we decided to throw caution to the wind and head to the west side of Florida. Caliente, here we come!
Traffic was light, so we made it in record time, feeling like road warriors on a mission. As we approached Caliente, we noticed some really nice houses lining the road. “Lucky people,” I thought, admiring their proximity to what we assumed was a dreamy, resort-style life. It wasn’t until later that we realized these were actual homes, and people really lived there full-time! Imagine that—a permanent vacation! As we were driving by, we couldn’t help but laugh when we saw one particular scene: a man, completely naked, climbing up a ladder to take down Christmas lights. His wife, equally naked, was standing at the bottom, holding the ladder steady, making sure his bare butt stayed firmly on the rungs while he finished his job. It was like a real-life version of a Christmas card gone hilariously wrong. What a way to start our adventure!
Our room, however, was less "luxurious oasis" and more "vintage time capsule." The air had a distinct scent—mold, perhaps? Or was it just my imagination playing tricks on me? We pulled back the curtains, and lo and behold, we were greeted with a picturesque view of the resort, complete with beautiful pools, swaying palm trees, and… oh, who am I kidding? We were already undressing faster than you can say "au naturel."
But the adventure hit a snag when we couldn't figure out how to actually get into the resort area. Turns out, you have to walk out onto the street, and enter through the main gate. And then, to add to the absurdity, we were met by a security checkpoint straight out of the airport, complete with a guard who had a real gun strapped to his side. I’m almost naked, where exactly do you think I’m hiding anything? I half-expected him to ask me to bend over and cough!
We passed through the X-ray machine without incident—though our two bottles of water weren’t so lucky. The guard, in his infinite wisdom, confiscated them because, apparently, sealed bottles of water are the ultimate contraband. We might be sneaking in alcohol, he said. Because, you know, a couple of naked rebels like us are clearly a threat to the peace and sanctity of the resort. From that point, the visit already had a "why did we come here?" vibe.
Determined to salvage the day, we pressed on, only to find the place eerily deserted. "Maybe it's too early," we thought, but even as the hours ticked by, the resort remained as lively as a library on a rainy day. No music by the pool, no lively chatter—just the occasional tumbleweed rolling by (okay, not really, but it sure felt like it). The big pool wasn't heated and felt like it had been filled with ice cubes. A smaller pool, with walkways that felt like navigating a narrow alleyway, was the only warm refuge, and that’s where the few souls in the resort gathered, clinging to warmth and small talk.
And then, as if on cue, our friend the security guard made his rounds, strutting like a peacock with that gun still attached to his waist, ensuring that all us naked guests were safe and, more importantly, behaving. At this point, it felt less like a vacation and more like a bizarre social experiment.
As nightfall approached, a few locals trickled in. Turns out, they live there—lucky them. We inquired about the playroom, only to be told it was closed because it wasn’t the weekend. Same story when we asked about the entertainment we’d seen advertised online. Great shows, they said, but only on weekends. Thursday, it turns out, is the weekday equivalent of “meh, why bother?”
Dinner time rolled around, and we found ourselves in the resort’s one and only restaurant, staring at a menu that was shorter than a haiku. I was on a soft diet thanks to some recent dental work, so I tried to cobble together a meal by combining fish from one dish and grits (the only soft option) from another. After a 40-minute wait, my meal arrived—swimming in a sea of brown grease. It looked like someone had melted a stick of butter and decided to fry everything in it. But I was too hungry to care, so I picked around the grease and managed to eat a little.
The surprise came with the bill. I was charged for two meals because the fish and grits came from different dishes. Seriously? And I was still hungry! I refused to pay for both since I could barely eat one portion, but the waiter seemed more baffled than concerned. It’s not like I was speaking Swahili—I was perfectly clear about why my bill wasn’t fair.
Will I be adding Caliente to my list of favorite resorts? Would I go back? Well, the jury’s still out on that one. Maybe we’ll give it another shot on a weekend when the resort is allegedly buzzing with life.
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